Who Knew
by began-to-climb
Summary: PostUltimatum. Nicky Parsons sits alone in a coffeeshop, reading a novel, the news report dribbling to her ears. First she hears his name. Then she hears his voice. Loud and clear. Minor JasonNicky.


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Name: Who Knew

Rating: PG

Summary: Nicky Parsons sits in a small coffee shop, reading the paper back flat on the table, the voices of the news slowly dribbling towards her. She looks at the report as people she once knew walked across the screen, incarcerated, guilty of treason. Then his name hit her ears. Closely followed by his voice. Loud and clear.

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in this piece.

Authors Note: Spoilers at the very beginning. If you haven't seen the Bourne Ultimatum, don't read this, unless you're okay with knowing a part of the ending.

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If someone said three years from now  
You'd be long gone  
I'd stand up and punch them up  
Cause they're all wrong  
–Who Knew, Pink

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"Reports say that Bourne was shot once then fell of the building, plunging into the river ten stories below. Yet, after a three-day search, his body was not recovered."

Nicky Parsons felt herself smiling. She knew then that she shouldn't have been, but she did. The men wandering across the small screen across the room, his mug shot stapled to the right, were people she knew, people she'd worked with, had trusted naively with her life. They had killed, had betrayed their allies, had trained weapons.

So she smiled. Happily. Proudly. Smugly. Her hands dropped into her lap, wringing the hem of the flimsy blouse incased under a denim jacket, and continued to watch the report, feeling the edges of her thin lips curve upward further and further as the conspiracy was laid flat on the table. Now the world would know what happened behind closed doors. Who was responsible for the some of history's greatest assassinations. And why there was no reason to fear the elusive icon, Jason Bourne.

She tucked her chin to her chest as his name floated across the surface of her mind repeatedly, like an ever-mobile marquee, drifting by again and again. Like his name, his face was fresh as well. She thought of him often, wondered if he was alive, if his company had captured him, if he was still as lost as when he'd sent her away.

She didn't want to forgive him for doing that; she had truly wanted to help, to help him remember anything about the man that wasn't his alias. But he hadn't given her that chance. He'd chucked her on the fastest bus to safety. Whether it was because he didn't need her or because he wanted her to be safe was still a mystery. Perhaps that was the allusion of Jason Bourne; no one could figure him out unless he did so first.

The news repot suddenly took to a commercial break, faces disappearing, concluding the story with final recent notes and switching on to an advertisement. She sipped her tall glass of burgundy beer, wincing at the tang as the cold liquid burned her throat, then returned to her book, focusing on the words instead of his fate.

"What are you reading?" a voice asked behind her.

Her breath caught in her thickening throat. Her body went limp and, for a brief second, she forgot how to function. Curling a puff of black hair behind her ear, difficult considering that she'd cut it to an unthinkably short length, she slowly turned around.

"Jason…"

He stood above her, black coat shadowing his brawn body, hands stuffed into the pockets. His brown hair was longer than when she'd left him, messily spiked in areas as if he'd just rolled out of bed. Or hadn't slept at all.

He fidgeted for a minute, unsure of what to do with himself now that he'd made himself known, shuffling his feet as she stared up at him, dumbfounded by his presence. It was a safe assumption that he was a surprise; she didn't think he'd walk in daylight, especially so quickly after the incident in New York.

Finally, he took to sitting in the empty seat across from her, dragging her attention with him. He folded his hands together on the tabletop, craning to take a peak at the bind of the novel. Noticing his lingering curiosity, she lifted the book, displaying the tattered cover. _The Great Gatsby. _She smiled in embarrassment, discarding the book in her purse on the vacant chair between them.

The residents of the café were oblivious to the notion that a culprit had just walked in. The only thing to be seen was the outer persona. They were just two more people. They stared at each other for a several minutes, not saying a word. Really, what was there to say? After everything that had happened between them, starting with Treadstone and ending with this moment in time. She didn't even know if he remembered their past. She feared bringing it up. If it was meant to be discussed, she wanted him to initiate first.

She opened her mouth, catering to the idea of speaking, averting her eyes. "How'd you find me?"

"You're not that hard to track down. If you know where to look." he answered simply.

Not satisfied with his response, she pressed on. Though a part of her knew that he was trained not to elaborate. "So you came to London for me. Why? What do you need me for?"

"I needed to see a familiar face." He paused. She watched as he rolled his tongue to his back teeth, loitering as he gently stroked the bone. It was as if he was contemplating something, his next move maybe, and was losing a downhill battle. Before she could protest, he reached across the table and slid his hand under hers. "Nicky…"

Then she saw him. His vulnerable side was recognizable at once, so stricken with pain of what he'd done and what he'd seen. She knew that expression blindfolded. She'd seen it when they were in Tangier. When he had burst through the window and saved her life without being asked. When she'd caught his reflection staring back at her in the mirror. When he'd said his cryptic good-bye before she'd boarded the bus.

Jason wasn't Jason anymore. He wasn't the man that had volunteered to be a phantom, to be known but not seen. A part of her didn't want to believe that yet another part breathed a sigh of relief.

She breathed heavily, prepared to retract her hand. She couldn't do this. She couldn't. "Is it over?" she croaked, bowing her head, unable to look him in the eye without seeing someone else. "Are they done looking for you?"

"Nicky—"

"What do you think they'll do when they found out you're not dead? You know they'll find out." she rambled absent-mindedly, willing herself to take back her hand. She didn't though. For some reason, she felt completely safe while he traced circles on her hand.

"Nicky, please—" he whispered, his lips barely moving.

Nicky shook her head. "I have so many questions for you, Jason, and I don't know where to start."

A beat passed between them. Jason stared at his hand caressing hers, his Adams Apple bobbing as he swallowed. Nicky took the silence to examine him, memorizing the way the stitched cut above his left eye curved towards his ear. The scrap on his right cheek was still red. The cut on his nose added to the severity of what they'd been through. She wondered if his emotional and mental wounds would heal as quickly as his physical ones.

Finally, he spoke, slowly drawling out the voice broken with pain. "Can you call me David? Like you used to."

Her eyes widened in alert. His found hers. Right then she wasn't looking into Jason Bourne. She was looking into David Webb, the young boy that she had met in college. The young boy that she had secretly harbored a crush for. The young, charming boy that she had witnessed turn into a man without a heart.

"So you remember? Everything?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Jason shrugged. "And what?"

"We have a lot to talk about." Nicky stated. He merely nodded. "Where are you staying?"

Another shrug. Of course he wouldn't have plans. He wasn't trained for deviating plans. He was getting his life back, starting with her. The last thing he thought about was where he was sleeping. She offered him her guestroom; he accepted.

Soon he ordered a cup of coffee and the pair fell into a pleasant conversation. The scene was surreal, as the feeling of the circumstances was like a fantasy. Neither touched on what would happen next. Instead they caught up like any estranged friends. Quietly, a genuine smile crept onto his lips. She squeezed his hand.

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A/N: My first Bourne fic. There will likely be a companion piece coming up, but I'd love to know what you think of this one.


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